


blood-red, ink-black

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, BDSM, M/M, Prostitution, critique of the text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Kushiel's Legacy AU. Pete is an anguissette, earning out his marque in Valerian House, but it is not his nature to yield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood-red, ink-black

Pete knelt abeyante in the corridor outside the Dowayne's receiving room for over an hour, seeking the inner stillness of meditation but mainly failing. The rise and fall of voices on the other side of the door were too distracting. The Dowayne's voice, of course, and her Second's, and the man who had arrived at the House in a swirl of demands that suggested he could give the House something that balanced out his disrespect. 

Money, then. A significant amount of money. And so here Pete knelt, waiting to be laid out as the House's highest card. An anguissette might be sacred and wondrous and everything else, but it was also valuable merchandise. A shame his virgin price was already earned and spent. 

He wished they would call him in already. The floor was cold and rough, and for all his status as Kushiel's chosen, and all his training above that, there was no pleasure in the ache in his joints. It just hurt. And he was bored. 

The door opened and he looked up through his lashes, expecting to meet the Dowayne's disapproving stare. Instead he found himself looking at a stranger. The man who had thrown Valerian House into an uproar. 

"How long have you been out here?" the man asked. 

Pete blinked slowly, trying to school his features into the proper soft, coy expression. "Since you began your negotiations, my lord." 

"You should have come in and joined us." 

Pete bowed his head again, adjusting his body into more perfect abeyante. "I would endure so much more hardship than this to please you, my lord." 

"It doesn't please me." He held out his hand. "Stand, please. I'm getting a crick in my back just looking at you." 

Pete obediently stood, clasping his hands behind his back and bowing his head. "My lord." 

"You said that." The man smiled slightly. "I am Gabriel Saporta. And you are Peter nó Valerian." 

Pete simply nodded, trying not to let his surprise show as he took Lord Saporta's hand. Really, he should have known. Who else could it be? Who else had enough money to impress the House like this? But then, most men of his wealth and status would have been wearing the symbol of their house from head to toe, and his lordship wasn’t. Pete had to search his memory for the symbol of the Saporta name: roses. Perhaps Gabriel wasn’t fond of them.

The Dowayne spoke from somewhere behind Saporta's shoulder, bringing Pete’s attention back to the moment. "His lordship has requested you for the night, Peter." 

Pete bowed his head again. "It would be my honor, of course, my lord." 

"Honor is hardly the point. But we'll discuss further when we get to my house." Saporta gestured down the hallway. "Shall we?" 

"I should get dressed, my--" Pete caught himself at the Dowayne's look. "That is, would it not please you if I wore something more flattering, my lord?" 

"I am pleased with you as you are." Saporta spoke with an odd intensity that made Pete peer at him through his lashes. This was different than his assignations usually began. But he had heard that things were often _different_ when Gabriel Saporta was involved. 

"Please," Saporta said, gesturing again. "Accompany me." 

And since serving Lord Saporta's pleasure was the point, Pete did. 

** 

When they reached his lordship's townhouse, Pete expected to be ushered to the bedroom right away, but instead Saporta took him to his study, a cozy room with a tall window that overlooked the river. Here there were roses, carved into the furniture and planted under the windows. They were almost blood-red, almost the color of the fleck in Pete’s eye, Kushiel’s mark. It must have taken years of breeding to make them so, and careful tending to keep them.

Saporta poured them each a glass of wine and sat across from Pete, staring at him intently. 

Pete hated when his assignations did this. He was never sure if they wanted what customers would want from other servants of Naamah (smooth guidance through a conversation and a sense of comfortable companionship) or if they expected perfect silence and stillness and the presumed-inherent humility of an anguissette. Pete did not actually possess any inherent humility. Valerian House had taught it to him, with great effort on their part and great resistance on his, but he could never tell when he was expected to use it. 

He erred on the side of caution and sipped his wine slowly, keeping his eyes averted from Saporta. 

"Are you happy in your work?" Saporta asked abruptly. 

Pete blinked. "It's an honor to serve Naamah." 

"The answer you're expected to give, of course." 

Pete's stomach twisted and he set his wineglass down carefully. "My lord..." 

"It _is_." 

"Of course it is. Your tone implied that it was somehow untrue." 

"Is it?" 

Perhaps verbal games and humiliation were Saporta's preference. "I exist to serve your pleasure," Pete said, bowing his head. "This is my reason for being alive." 

Saporta shook his head. "No." 

"Yes, my lord." Pete slipped from his chair and knelt at Saporta's feet. "Your pleasure is my sole purpose." 

Saporta's fingers settled gently under Pete's chin, tipping it up until they were looking at each other. "That is not what Elua wanted for any of his children." 

"I am Kushiel's chosen." 

"That means you feel pain as pleasure." Saporta cocked his head to the side, bringing his other hand to cradle Pete's jaw. "That's one very specific thing. From there to having no other purpose... how did you get to that idea?" 

Pete frowned and looked away, willing himself to remember his training, his comportment. This was almost certainly a test. "It is how I know myself. I have no other answer." 

"Love as thou wilt." Saporta's fingers traced Pete's cheek. "Have you ever loved as you would, Peter?" 

Pete's lips moved, opening and closing for a moment before he could muster a sound. "I had a friend. We--learned together. Learned each other." 

"Of your own free choice and will?" Pete nodded and Saporta smiled. "That's beautiful." 

"He left the House." Pete bit his lip. "He had a talent for art, and was able to find a tattoo master to buy his service from Valerian and take him as an apprentice." 

Saporta's eyes lit up. "He did your oh-so-illicit marque, didn't he? The Dowayne told me the story." 

Pete nodded again, closing his eyes. His marque, his great act of rebellion. A design the Dowayne had told him in no uncertain terms was forbidden, the work done all at once and the cost forgiven instead of binding him longer to the House and it customs as it was meant to. His rebellion, his failure, the catalyst for learning his lesson. 

"May I see it?" 

The lesson obedience, and so Pete rose to his feet and turned, letting his robe slip from his shoulders. 

Saporta's fingers were gentle, tracing up the tower of skulls that rose from the base of Pete's spine to the nape of his neck. Pete bit down on his lip again when Saporta's touch found the first of the scars breaking up the ink lines, then each subsequent mark. The priests of Kushiel were always thorough in their chastisement; Pete had thanked them for every blow. 

"It's ugly," he said finally, when it seemed clear that Saporta would let the silence linger. Another test. 

"No." Saporta's hand stilled at the base of Pete's neck. "There is beauty in survival. In suffering." 

Pete smiled, though he knew Saporta couldn't see it. It would show in his voice. "In pain." 

"If I didn't believe that, I would hardly patronize Valerian House." Saporta's hand slid down Pete's back again, a slow caress. 

Pete dug his fingernails into his palms. "What will you to do me, my lord?" 

"Impatient?" Saporta's fingers traced the deepest scar. "What do you want?" 

"To serve your pleasure." 

"But this is your pleasure as well." Saporta stood and moved to face him, smiling slightly. It didn't reach his eyes, Pete noted distantly; they were hollow, dark. "Pain as pleasure. Kushiel's chosen. Anguissette." 

"Surrendering myself to you is--" 

"Not the same thing. Not necessarily." Saporta tilted his head. "Is surrender truly your pleasure, Peter? It doesn't fit, to me, with defying your House to claim your own marque. It doesn't fit with your Dowayne sending you to Kushiel's temple for punishment nine times in three years." 

"The motto of my House is 'I yield,'" Pete said through stiff lips. "I will yield my will to you." 

Saporta still smiled, but his eyes grew even sadder. "Lovely thing. That is not my pleasure." 

"I don't understand." 

"A willing and joyous partner who comes to me in full consent. That is my pleasure." 

Pete jerked back, shocked. "I do consent! I agreed openly! Anything else would be the worst sin." 

"You _agree_." Saporta's fingers brushed over the back of Pete's wrist, the light touch nearly burning. "That's a bit less than joyous." 

"You're beautiful." As he well knew. This must be _another_ test. The worst test. "Lying with you would hardly be a hardship." 

"I'm flattered." Saporta's hand fell away. "But there is no joy in your eyes, lovely, and so I will not touch you again tonight." 

"You have bought my service," Pete said. "And my time. What will you do with them, if you don't intend to touch me?" 

Saporta glanced at the ceiling, then the door. "Perhaps we could patronize the arts." 

** 

Pete shook when he stepped through the door of the tattoo shop, from memory and anticipation and fear. It had been such a long time, and no one had ever told him if Travis had been punished for their crime. Perhaps he was not welcome here. 

Saporta was a step behind him in the doorway, so he couldn't retreat. He tried to find his composure, glancing around the interior of the shop while Saporta rang the bell to summon the owner. Travis might not even be an apprentice anymore. He could have his own shop, or have left to seek his fortune, or a hundred other things that Pete hadn't thought of, because he just assumed everything remained frozen the way he last saw it, like a fool. 

The curtain to the workspace opened and Travis stepped out, frowning as Saporta continued ringing the bell. "Yes, yes, I heard you, how can I--" 

Pete lost himself for a moment, all composure and etiquette forgotten. He threw himself at Travis. 

"Pete." Travis wrapped him up in his arms, holding on tightly, and Pete started shaking even harder. "Pete. Is it really you?" 

Pete nodded, pressing his face against Travis' chest. "It's me. I'm... me. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be sorry for coming to see me. I've missed you." 

"I'm sorry about--" Pete shook his head and forced himself to pull back. "What happened." 

"Forgiven, forgotten," Travis said immediately, catching Pete's face between his hands and looking at him carefully. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Pete blinked rapidly, suddenly remembering his place. "This is my lord Saporta. He's my patron tonight." 

"Gabriel Saporta," he corrected pleasantly, offering Travis his hand. "I admire your work." 

Travis kept his free hand on Pete's face while he shook Saporta's. "Have you seen much of it?" 

"Just Peter's marque. But it's exquisite." 

"And you're here to..." Travis looked at Pete and frowned. "Did he bring you here to put his own mark on you?" 

Pete leaned into Travis's touch. "I don't know." 

"Because I won't do that, my lord. With all due respect." 

"No, no," Saporta said, leaning against the wall with what read, to Pete, as exaggerated nonchalance. "Nothing like that, I assure you." 

"Then why are you here? With respect." 

Saporta waved his hand. "Let's just let the respect go as assumed." 

"And to answer my question?" 

"For the delightful conversation." 

Travis's eyes narrowed, and Pete cleared his throat, pulling away from his touch. "My lord Saporta, it was very kind of you to bring me here." 

"It was nothing." Saporta waved his hand again. "The two of you should catch up. I'll go purchase refreshments for all of us." 

"My lord, you don't have to--" 

"I don't have to do anything. So think nothing of it. Back shortly." 

Pete watched him go, then turned back to Travis with a helpless shrug. "He's very strange." 

"Will he expect something out of the ordinary from you for this?" 

Pete smiled weakly. "Everything I do is out of the ordinary." 

"Will he expect something beyond what's reasonable, then?" 

"He claims he doesn't expect anything from me at all, because I'm not joyous about it." Pete still didn't believe that. Taking him to see Travis had to be a trade for something Saporta would claim later. Probably something that Pete wouldn't want to do at all. 

Travis's eyebrows lifted. "A strange gentleman indeed." 

"Let's not think about him until he gets back?" Pete hesitated, then held his arms out to Travis again. "I've missed you so much." 

Travis pulled him close again. "I've missed you, too. How badly were you punished?" 

"They sent me to the temple a bunch of times. Let it scar to ruin your work." Pete breathed in Travis' scent. "What did they do to you?" 

"Barred me from working with the Night Court. I'll never do a marque again." 

That was a heavy hit to any tattooist's earnings. But money washed easier than blood. "They didn't hurt you?" 

"They did. But it doesn't matter." 

"Travis." Pete sat up. "It does matter. What did they do?" 

Travis sighed and held his arm out, turning it so Pete could see the forearm below his elbow. Pete remembered that there was a dragon and a phoenix there, twined together; he always imagined that they were falling from sky to earth, holding each other all the way down. Now there was only rough, twisted scar tissue. 

"They cut your art away," Pete whispered. 

"A lesson." 

"Everything is a lesson." 

Travis leaned into him, resting their foreheads together. "It doesn't hurt anymore, Pete. Forget about it." 

"I can't. They hurt you, because of me. I can't forget that." 

"And they hurt you because of _me_." 

"No. It was my idea, me having to fight everything because I'm too stupid to follow the rules." 

"Don't." Travis kissed him softly, once over each eye. "Don't say things like that. It's not true." 

"Maybe it is." 

"No." Travis kissed him on the mouth this time, softly and gently, and Pete closed his eyes, letting everything go for a moment except the way Travis's mouth felt on his. 

"Will you hurt me?" he whispered when Travis pulled back again. 

"Teeth, fingers, or needles?" Travis whispered back. 

Pete's throat went dry at the thought. "Needles. Needles, please." 

"What do you want? More skulls? Something else?" 

"A dragon." Pete touched his own arm. "One on me for what they took from you." 

** 

Saporta returned with cakes and wine just as Travis finished sketching the design in ink on Pete's arm. "Availing yourself of the art," he said, another of his mysterious smiles on his face. "Wonderful." 

"There's a table in the side room, my lord," Travis said, nodding toward the doorway. "If you'd like to eat in peace." 

"I'd prefer to watch the process. If it's all right with both of you." 

His eyes were on Pete as he spoke, despite the address to both of them. Pete ducked his head, trying to hide the flush of heat that overcame him. He had lost Saporta's interest. This was no more than a courtesy and a whim. 

"Of course, my lord," he murmured. 

"And you, Travis?" 

"If it doesn't bother Pete, it doesn't bother me." Travis studied Pete's arm for a moment, then moved to the side table to prepare his needles. "I hope you've gotten better at holding still." 

"No," Pete said ruefully. "Exactly the same." 

"I don't have anything to tie you down, so you'll just have to try hard." 

"I will." Pete settled himself on Travis's work table, telling himself he must have been mistaken about the flash of interest in Saporta's eyes when Travis said that. It was better not to dwell. Always better not to dwell. 

"A dragon," Saporta said, and Pete jumped. "Is there a special meaning to the dragon?" 

"Between the two of us," Travis said easily. His scarred arm was turned away from Saporta, and Pete knew they could never really explain it anyway. It was a feeling, a shared pain. That sort of thing could never be given to someone outside. 

"It's beautiful. It suits him." 

"You think I'm a dragon?" Pete shook his head. "As you wish, my lord, but that isn't a comparison I would have made on my own." 

"A dragon in a cage is still a dragon," Saporta said, his voice low and heated in a way that made the air prickle against Pete's skin. 

He closed his eyes to escape the need to answer, tucking his chin to his chest while Travis set the first needle to his skin. He tapped it with his hammer and pain bloomed through Pete's body like blood in water. 

"Oh." He bit down on a moan, but he couldn't help the wave that went through his muscles, pulling them all tight with anticipation. 

"Hold still," Travis reminded him, and went on with his work. Tap, tap, placing the ink precisely along the lines he had drawn, sending helpless jolts through Pete's body. 

He held back the sounds until he was hard as a rock, arching mindlessly off the table. "Travis," he moaned finally. "Please." 

"And this is only his arm," Travis said with weary affection. "When I did his back he was a complete mess. And my table was more of one." 

Saporta didn't answer. Pete let his head fall to the side and opened his eyes, staring at the man far more boldly than he would have been able to without the pain and ecstasy coursing through his body, making him forget himself. Saporta was staring at him, every bit of his attention on Pete. Travis might as well have been on the other side of the sea. Saporta's eyes were wide, hungry and dark, and Pete realized with a jolt that made his hips rock up again that this was giving Saporta what he had paid for, as much or more than anything they could have done at the house. 

Pete looked away first; rather, he closed his eyes as Travis applied his needles again and a fresh wave of pain went through him, hot and then sweet. 

He realized that he was close to losing control and spilling over himself, with Saporta and Travis watching. Typical for him to come for his patrons, even the point, but if Saporta had spoken truly earlier in the evening, he didn't _have_ to. And if it wasn't required of him, he would rather not. 

"Travis," he gasped, turning his head toward his friend. "May I have a minute, just to--" 

It took a moment before Travis understood, a moment when shame rushed through Pete, cold and tasting like salt in the back of his throat, threatening to overwhelm the pain and pleasure holding him shaking between them. That was another way to solve the problem, of course; swamp his body with shame until it didn't respond to the other signals and he curled in on himself, soft and feeling far more like a monster than the chosen of Elua's Companion. 

"My lord Saporta," Travis said. "Could you step out for a moment?" 

Pete's stomach knotted, painfully tight, but Saporta rose to his feet and turned away smoothly, his eyes drifting over Pete's body without purchase. "Of course," he said, no sign of startlement or disgust in his tone. "I'll find some more wine." 

Pete watched him leave, then gasped as Travis's fingers slid over the raw tattoo, pressing down firmly. "Oh!" 

"I'll do the tail-tip," Travis said softly. "Curling right around your elbow. Will that be enough?" 

Pete nodded, biting down on his lower lip. Travis shook his head, touching Pete's teeth gently with his fingertip. "None of that. Be as loud as you need. He's gone, and no one else is here. I want to hear you." 

Pete blushed and licked his lips, lingering over the indentations his teeth had left. "I'll probably scream." 

"I want to hear it." 

"I might cry." 

"I don't mind." 

"All right." Pete took another breath and turned his arm to the angle Travis needed. "Keep going." 

** 

The Dowayne was not pleased to see what was under the bandage on his arm. 

"Your body is art, Peter," she said, looking at him from her chair. He knelt abeyante, every inch of him properly composed. His arm throbbed, the ache traveling up and down his nerves in a low, pulsing pleasure that wasn't enough to get lost in. Closer to a toothache than the clean, sharp blow of a whip. Half an erection that wasn't allowed to come to full pleasure. Annoying. 

"Peter. You're not listening to me." 

"I am, Dowayne."

She looked at him for a moment, then sighed and gestured to the unoccupied settee. "Sit. Have tea." 

He did as he was told, grateful to be off his knees. The floor in her office was as unpleasant as the hallway. 

"You must pay more mind to aesthetics, Peter," she said in a softer tone. More maternal. He remembered that from when he really was a bewildered child, brought to the House by parents who knew their legends and their duty. They could have more children, after all, and he would have a grand and exciting life here. 

Grand and exciting and bound to things he was incapable of honoring the way he was supposed to. But the wealthy and powerful got a lovely sacred toy. 

"Aesthetics," he repeated, taking another sip and holding the hot tea on his tongue until the pain bloomed and faded. "Yes, Dowayne." 

"Your marque, and now this. It's as if you're deliberately marring your body, Peter." 

"I thought the dragon was beautiful." 

"The technical work is gorgeous, of course. The same as your marque." Of course he couldn't fool her eyes. They were too well-trained. Travis's shop would probably be getting an unprompted visit from some sort of inspector for his pains. "But just as your marque evokes horror and grief, this dragon embodies rage in every line." 

Pete touched the tattoo site absently, picturing the rampant wings, bared fangs, lashing tail. "I suppose so." 

"Why would you want such things on your body? You must embody submission. Deference. This is the aesthetic of your work, your calling. Your life. At the very least, elegance and beauty, Peter. Not rage. Not grief." 

He nodded, setting the teacup aside, knowing better than to argue that rage and grief could have their own beauty. Beauty that cleansed and harrowed, beauty that transformed and twisted. She wouldn't know what he meant. Perhaps he didn't even know what he meant. Perhaps everything in his head and heart was a lie. 

"You must serve your patrons' pleasure. You must shape yourself--" 

"This was my patron's pleasure." 

She sat back, as startled as he was by his own words. "What?" 

"Watching me," he said, pressing his fingers against the raw skin again. "Watching me be tattooed. The process. It pleased him." 

"I see." The Dowayne looked lost, and not happy about it. Pete bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling. "He commissioned the dragon, then?" 

"Ah... no, Dowayne." Pete couldn't deliberately lie to her, only speak the truth in pieces. "That was chosen, er, collaboratively." 

"Well. In the future, pay more mind to aesthetics, please." She folded her hands in her lap, turning her gaze to the window. "That adds some depth to his message his morning, I suppose." 

Pete's heart jumped in his chest. "Message, Dowayne?" 

"He said he found you to be a charming and sharp-minded companion, and requested that you accompany him to his estate for several days. I thought surely you would need more time to recover, first, but if his taste runs to such relatively small things..." 

She wouldn't think so if she had had needles and hammer taken to her elbow, Pete thought sourly, but he tilted his head in acknowledgment. "I'm ready to travel at any time, Dowayne." 

"You leave the day after tomorrow." She was still looking out the window. "Request anything you need by tonight. You're dismissed, Peter." 

He bowed and left, trying to quiet the turmoil in his head with the ache in his arm. Saporta had said they were not compatible. What could he mean by patronizing Pete again--and taking him away, at that? 

And what in the world had he written in his note? It must have been seven layers of cryptic for the Dowayne to not understand it at first glance. 

Pete was used to being able to be several steps ahead of his patrons. Saporta seemed to want to get ahead of him. Pete fully intended to hold him to a draw. 

** 

Saporta's estate was less grand than Pete expected; instead of gardens and lawns, he found a working farm specializing in horses and sheep. 

"Odd combination," he said, for lack of anything else coming to mind. Saporta had spent most of their trip from the city deep in conversation with his financial man, who carried heavy leather-bound books and frowned about everything. Pete had spent the ride reading an adventure novel and staring out the window. 

"Bloodstock for the soul and wool and meat for the bottom line," Saporta said. "Though when we cull the herds and sell those off to cavalry, it's always a nice boost in profit." 

"I don't see the romance in horses, I'm afraid," Pete said, watching out the window as a pair of the animals chased each other across a field. They had large teeth and moved entirely too fast. 

“So you won't want to wake up early and ride out with me?" 

Saporta presented it as a genuine question, but Pete couldn't keep from flinching. Where had his training gone? He seemed to be forgetting everything that had ever been knocked into his thick head and hide. "Of course I didn't mean--" 

Saporta waved his hand. "Don't worry a moment. I was hoping we could talk--in the evenings after dinner. The rest of the day I have meetings, so mornings are really my only time to ride and it'll be nice to be alone with my thoughts. You should relax, take your time, enjoy the library or whatever else catches your eye. Nothing's barred to you. I have no secrets." 

"I'm bound to keep any you do have," Pete reminded him. "Anything between us is sacred." 

“Only if you come to it in true desire." Saporta seemed to catch himself as soon as the words were said. "At any rate, I really hoped to give you a bit of a respite from the city and the House, more than anything. I like tweaking the Dowayne's nose." 

"But you'd also like to talk to me in the evenings?" 

"If you wish to. I won't demand your time." 

Pete sighed. "I hardly want to be hauled around the countryside like I'm a decorative piece of china, my lord." 

Saporta laughed softly. "You're far more than decorative, I assure you." 

"How could you possibly know that?" 

"Sixth sense." The carriage came to a halt and Saporta sprang out onto the driveway. "Here we are. Mr. Hitt, take my companion inside and show him to the west suite. Be sure he's comfortable and give him the key to the rooms. I'm going down to the broodmares' pasture. I'll be up for dinner, don't worry about holding it for me." 

He was gone in a whirl of dust and Pete was left feeling as if he'd missed something very important while being given a gift. How to open it, perhaps, or instructions for its use. What was he expected to _do_ with time on his hands and a patron who wanted only conversation--and that only two hours at a time? 

This was not the use an anguissette was made for. 

** 

Pete rarely slept late, but when he opened his eyes the next morning, the sun was already well on its way into the sky. He lay still for a few minutes, considering the strange feeling of lying alone abed with nowhere to be and no one to please. 

Better not to get used to it. 

He dressed, choosing a shirt that would cover the still-healing tattoo, and went to the kitchen for a breakfast he could carry, then outside. He lingered in the courtyard between the house and the stables, trying to find his bearings. The courtyard was lined with roses--blood-red, living rows of the Saporta house emblem, not quite fully blooming. He couldn’t imagine the dizzying scent of them once they were. 

He tilted his face up toward the sun, closing his eyes and letting the warmth wash over him. He could walk anywhere he wanted. He could _do_ anything he wanted, so long as he was at Saporta's disposal after dinner. He found that he couldn't think of much except going back to his room to be entirely alone. Naamah would despair of him. 

He turned to go back to the house, then stopped as Saporta came out of the stable, deep in conversation with Mr. Hitt. His lordship's boots were spattered with mud and his hair was wild from riding. He carried a leather riding crop, smacking it against his leg as he spoke. 

Pete's breath caught in his throat as his body seemed to light up with a fire of its own will. Embarrassing. Terrible. 

Naamah _would_ approve of that. 

** 

Saporta did not lay a finger on him the entire time they spent on the estate. They drank brandy and talked about art and theater and music. Pete wasn't trained for this. He had never even been to Eglantine House. But Saporta didn't seem to mind the conversation being among laymen. 

And he smiled. More than Pete could understand. 

"I'm staying a bit longer to tend to business," Saporta said on the last evening. “But the carriage will take you back tomorrow, and there's a gift waiting for you at the House." 

"You're very kind." Pete tilted his head as gracefully as he could. "Especially given that I've done nothing for you." 

"I've enjoyed our conversations." 

"I don't need any pity, you know. Or to be saved." 

Saporta's eyebrows rose. "Neither of those were my intention." 

"Then why did you bring me here? Why are we playing this game?" 

"I like games." Saporta shrugged. "And I like you." 

"Not enough to do what you've paid for." 

"Too much." 

"That, right there. That's pity." 

Saporta shook his head and drained his glass. "If it is, I assure you, it's only for myself." 

** 

Saporta's gift was very generous. Pete paid off a satisfying portion of his debt to the House and had enough left over to donate to Kushiel's Temple when he went seeking absolution. 

The bronze-masked priests were as good with their whips as ever. Pete closed his eyes and let the rush of wings fill his mind, his body, chasing out every thought. His skin burned and split and bled. The pain moved through him, burned him clean, pushed him to orgasm. 

He slept for an entire day. 

The next day, he received a note from Saporta. _Thinking of you often,_ it said. _I hope to see you again when I come back to town. Have you finished reading that novel? Hopelessly romantic, but with some happy turns of phrase, I think..._

** 

A few days after his return, he was notified that one of his regular patrons had sent for him. Pete felt mingled relief and discontent when he heard the name; Lord Way was generous in his patron gifts and not especially demanding in what he wanted from Pete’s body, but after the novelty of having nothing asked of him at all, Pete resented it anyway.

He couldn’t indulge himself in that, though. His services had been engaged and he was required to go, even with his back still raw from the priests’ whips. Fortunately, Way was not interested in inflicting pain in a way that would interfere with Pete’s back, and it never bothered him to see someone else’s marks on Pete’s body. His desires were very specific and easily indulged.

When Pete arrived at the house, he was escorted directly to Lord Way’s chambers, where dinner was set out for two on a small table. Lord Way stood at the window, looking out at the gardens with his customary carefully guarded, blank expression. His older brother, the family’s heir, had gone into exile following explosions of temper and emotion that taught his sibling harsh lessons in the benefits of discretion and control.

Hence Pete’s presence behind closed doors, his vows to Kushiel, his House, and his profession holding his silence sure.

Lord Way smiled when he saw Pete, moving from the window to the table. “I’m so glad you were unengaged.”

“My lord.” Pete knelt, closing his eyes when Lord Way touched his back lightly.

“Please, sit. I asked the chef to outdo himself. And the wine should be good.”

Wine at Way’s house was more likely to be plentiful and cheap than good, but Pete drank and ate politely, making appropriately meaningless conversation until Way’s non-answers made it clear he would rather not. They finished the meal in silence that was heavy but not uncomfortable.

Way sat still for a few moments after the plates were cleared, staring down at the tabletop with distant eyes. Pete waited, holding himself in a perfectly composed position of feigned relaxation, as if he was melting into his chair yet could be at Way’s side instantly if summoned.

“May I,” Way said finally. “That is--would it be all right if we did as usual?”

“Of course, my lord,” Pete said softly. “As you will.”

“Thank you.” Way rose and walked to an armoire in the corner, taking from it a dark leather box that Pete knew well. He removed a pair of wrist cuffs and a small contraption of wood and leather that made Pete’s pulse quicken to see it.

He rose without further instruction and followed Way into the next chamber, which was furnished with bookshelves, paintings, and a large, richly upholstered armchair. Pete knelt in front of the chair and placed his wrists together behind his back for Lord Way to bind them.

Way was conscientious as ever, ensuring that the cuffs didn’t pinch or chafe Pete’s skin. Pete had told him before that it didn’t matter, but Way was insistent. He did not wish to leave marks. And so Pete yielded to his will.

When Pete was properly cuffed, Way moved to stand in front of him and lifted the gag bit to Pete’s mouth. Pete took it as easily as possible given the thing’s purpose; the carved wooden mouthpiece was designed to press against his palate unless he held his head at a precise angle, leaving him a choice between gagging painfully or having his muscles lock into a trembling ache as he fought to hold his position.

Once the gag was buckled around Pete’s head, Lord Way settled himself in the armchair and stared at him, watching in silence for long moments. Pete’s heartbeat seemed to echo through the room as he held his pose and waited for Way to speak.

The pattern was always the same; Way began with broken, stuttering sentences about his brother’s recent letters, then settled in more steadily on memories of when they’d last been together, their childhood, their friendship that laced over and around their brotherhood, filling in any gaps that remained in their affections. They had been everything to each other, and this enforced separation was almost too much for Way to bear.

As his loneliness became clear, other threads wove into his words, darkness in his heart and mind that went deeper and more frightening places. None of them were alien to Pete, but taking them on for someone else felt heavier on his shoulders and his soul, and he knew from experience that the weight would linger for days along with the ache in his neck and arms. As an anguissette, he felt physical pain spread through him like light; the emotional burden of the cry from Way’s soul drained him and gave nothing back.

Lord Way needed someone to listen; the purchase of pain was the only way he could reconcile inflicting that burden, as Pete had no desire to carry it and he’d not found anyone else who would take it up for free. It was twisted and painful, but it was the way of things.

The patron gift that accompanied him home with his pain and the echo of Way’s voice was exceptionally generous. He might appreciate it more in the morning.

**

Saporta sent a carriage two weeks later, following a second note so formal and polite that the Dowayne seemingly didn't know whether to praise Pete for retaining his attention or scold him for making his lordship take such an odd tone. 

Pete didn't know how to tell her that he and Saporta still had yet to _touch_ properly, much less fulfill the tenets of Valerian House. He simply promised to be on his best behavior and obeyed her order to have a haircut before the engagement. 

The carriage took him to Saporta's townhouse, which seemed much less imposing now. The upper floors were dark, only the parlor and dining room alight. Pete could see a shadow moving inside, tall and narrow enough to be Saporta. He caught himself smiling. 

Saporta opened the door himself, holding his hand out to guide Pete over the doorstep. "You honor my house." 

"Please, don't," Pete said before he remembered his promise. "Or-- as you wish, my lord, of course. Honor." 

Saporta laughed and closed the door. "You brighten my house. Is that better?" 

"I don't, though. You've turned all the lights out." 

"No reason to light rooms you're not using." 

"You plan to sleep in the parlor, then?" 

Saporta looked at him for a moment, his eyes sharp, then softened into a smile. "I'll take a lamp up with me when I go. Never fear, Peter. My inherent lazy nature will always take me to my bed in the end." 

Hearing Saporta say his name was a feeling very much like distressing, only pleasant. And overwhelming. "I've seen no evidence of laziness in you." 

"You've seen no evidence of anything." 

Pete frowned. "That's not true at all." 

"Oh?' Saporta gestured for Pete to precede him into the dining room. "You feel that you know me?" 

Pete hesitated and turned to face him again, studying his eyes. A little mockery there, but he felt as though that was directed inwardly, not at him. "I think I'm beginning to, my lord." 

Saporta took a breath. "Would it be too much to ask you to call me Gabriel?" 

"You've bought my time and my service," Pete said, his chest twisting as Saporta's face went closed. “You can ask me for anything you want." 

Saporta gestured toward the table. "Please. Sit. My cook promises wonders tonight." 

Pete took a seat and closed his eyes, taking slow breaths and trying to find his center. Lord Saporta wanted just what he'd wanted before. Conversation. Companionship. Tension that he wouldn't pursue. 

Everything Pete had been taught told him to yield. He had no idea what to do with this man who didn't desire him to be yielding. 

The meal was exquisite, the wine exceptional, the conversation only slightly stilted. Pete could feel Saporta's eyes on him. He couldn't imagine what the man saw, if he wasn't looking for the places to press that would make Pete bow and moan and beg. 

Saporta picked up one of the candles, tilting it until the melted wax ran down onto the tablecloth. He moved it in a slow arc, drawing a half-circle on the fabric and then casting dots of wax across the curve. 

"Your housekeeper will slap your wrist." Pete's voice came out hushed, choked. Unsurprising, given how watching Saporta expertly spill the hot wax was sending his heart into his throat. 

Saporta smiled faintly and set the candle aside, reaching for another. "I'll take my scolding properly, I assure you." 

Pete watched him tilt the candle and gave way to instinct before there was a chance of thought. He thrust his hand out between the candle and the table, catching the spill of wax over his knuckles. It ran evenly down between his fingers and up the back of his hand to his wrist, a bloom of perfect, red-hot pain. 

"Peter!" Saporta dropped the candle and grabbed Pete's wrist, turning it toward him to assess the damage. "Are you--" 

The absurdity of the question showed itself just in time, and they stared at each other for a moment, both breathing roughly. 

"That was my choice," Pete said finally. "It--I chose." 

"You did." Saporta licked his lips and looked down at Pete's hand, the skin bright red at the edges of the pale wax. 

"That's not a sensitive place.' Pete turned his arm in Saporta's hold, baring the inside of his wrist. "This is better." 

"Still not much, though." Saporta rubbed his thumb over the tendons of Pete's wrist. "Chest. Stomach. Thighs." 

"And between the stomach and the thighs," Pete prompted. 

"There as well." Saporta released him and took up another candle. "Hold your arm very still, if you choose to." 

"I do." Pete curled his fingers into his palm, then relaxed them again. 

Saporta smiled faintly, a twist of his lips below eyes that were suddenly bright and hungry. Pete's heart raced in his chest as he watched those eyes. They _promised_ , like Kushiel's own eyes in Pete's restless, helpless dreams. They promised everything. 

Saporta tipped the candle, filling the hollow of Pete's elbow like a cup. Pete cried out, his head falling back, but he kept his arm still, taking every drop, every flare of pain. He wished to. He chose it, absolutely. 

"You're perfect," Saporta said. Pete had heard a hundred patrons say that, if not more. It didn't sound any different coming from Saporta, but he liked it. The sound made his stomach heat and twist. 

"There's one candle left," Saporta said. 

Pete reached for it with his clean arm, fumbling the softened wax between his fingers and thrusting the candle toward Saporta. "Yes." 

Saporta held his hand and drew Pete in close enough that he could spill the wax into the hollow of Pete's collarbone. Pete's cry could probably be heard from the street.

Saporta squeezed his hand, pressing his fingers tightly to Pete's palm. Another promise.

**

The Dowayne was pleased with the marks on Pete’s skin from the wax. She touched them, turning Pete this way and that to study them in different falls of light. She pressed down firmly on his collarbone, eyes greedy for his response.

Pete did his best to be accommodating. Everyone liked to see him gasp and sigh when he was hurt.

“That’s all he did to you?” the Dowayne asked, nails scratching lightly over the reddened skin. “He prefers a very slow game.”

“He doesn’t want to play games.” Pete shifted his weight away from her, trying to reclaim his wrist from her other hand. “That’s what he told me.”

“So they all say.” She shook her head and let go of him. “Well, none of it is a game in Naamah’s eyes, of course.”

Pete shrugged and pulled his robe closer around himself. “You’ll let me know if he sends another message?”

“If he requests you again, of course.” She tilted her head. “I hope you can encourage him to be more adventurous. You’re worth so much more than this.”

“I can’t tell a patron what to do,” Pete said. “That wouldn’t be yielding.”

She gave him a sharp look and he hoped frantically that she wouldn’t _quite_ realize he was mocking her, the House, the entire Court of Night-Blooming Flowers.

“Quite right,” she said finally. “You may go now, Peter.”

Pete returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to will himself to relax. He touched the red marks on his arm and throat, brushed his fingers over the half-healed dragon tattoo, pressed experimentally at a bruise he couldn’t remember acquiring. They all produced only the smallest bursts of pain, pale blooms behind his eyes that didn’t last.

He stood up again and undressed, moving to the window. It looked out over a quiet courtyard, where House servants were dousing the lamps in anticipation of dawn. He wondered if Lord Saporta’s servants were doing the same. If Saporta was asleep, or at his own window. If he was thinking of…

Thinking that way could only bring trouble.

Of course, he was _good_ at trouble, which was why the Dowayne despaired of him so much.

Pete leaned further out the window. When he was younger, new to the House and still an apprentice, he and Travis had climbed out of their rooms dozens of times and spent clandestine hours, first in the courtyards and later slipping out the gates and into the city. They were caught and punished only half the time; good enough odds to keep them doing it.

He hadn’t tried it since they ruined his marque. It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly, just--there wasn’t any reason to run away anymore.

He stepped back into the room long enough to put on a pair of loose trousers and a bedshirt, then climbed up onto the window ledge. Hopefully this was the sort of thing that stayed in the muscle memory. It would work as long as he didn’t hesitate, and didn’t think, just climbed down and ran.

**

The servants had, indeed, doused all of the lamps outside Saporta’s house. It loomed dark and grim in the dawn light, staring down at the street and the little lost courtesan in his pajamas with disapproval.

Pete didn’t much care about the house’s opinion. He was counting windows, relying on his memory of other homes of the wealthy he had been in to find Saporta’s bedroom.

He made his best guess and slipped through the fence, making his way to the elaborately carved trim that covered up the drainpipe at the corner. It would be an easy climb, easier than making his way out of Valerian House. Like walking up a flight of stairs, almost, just--

“Were you a thief in a past life?”

Pete stumbled backward, his hands coming up defensively before he realized the voice came from Saporta, who was standing perhaps ten feet away at the edge of the garden. He was barefoot, dressed like Pete in sleeping clothes, and holding a cigarette in one hand.

“I thought midnight was the hour for breaking into houses,” he continued, taking a step closer. “Not dawn.”

“That’s what they want you to think, isn’t it?” Pete’s voice was high-pitched with nerves and hurt in his throat. So much for the poise and calm of an Adept.

Saporta smiled and tossed his cigarette into a stand of flowers. “Are you up early, or did you never go to bed?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Pete nodded slightly. “Neither could I.”

“I didn’t expect you to come back.”

“I shouldn’t have.” Pete rubbed his hands on his thighs and looked up at the still-disapproving house. “The Dowayne is going to be furious.”

“Tell me, how, exactly, does one punish an anguissette in any effective way?”

Saporta’s tone was light, teasing, but Pete’s shoulders sagged anyway and he wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t know how they punish us in general, I only know about me.”

Saporta cocked his head, his good humor fading. “And what do they do to you?”

“Shut me away and leave me alone.” Pete tilted his head back again, looking past the house to the lightening sky. “Bars on the windows, locks on the doors, stay in here and think about what you’ve done until you repent and ask Naamah for forgiveness. Or the Dowayne, as Naamah’s stand-in. I don’t think Naamah really cares.”

“She would take the House stone from stone for how they treat you.”

Saporta sounded so sure, so matter-of-fact. Pete looked at him again. “Really?

“They don’t let you love as you will.” Saporta brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Elua only gave us one rule. It shouldn’t be too terribly hard to follow.”

“They want me to behave a certain way. I’m not good at it.”

“You’re not here for them right now, though.” Saporta was watching him closely, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re here for yourself. Yes?”

Pete nodded and licked lips gone dry. “Yes.”

“You’re here because you want to be.”

“Yes.”

Saporta held his hand out. “Will you come inside?”

If he said _yes_ again, Pete would feel like a fool. Instead he took Saporta’s hand, and nodded.

**

Saporta’s rooms weren’t as lush as Pete expected, more suited to a prosperous merchant than a public figure like his lordship’s. The bed was simple and not overly large; there was a desk by the window and a single chair by the fireplace. The exquisite carpeting, soft and deep enough that Pete’s feet sank into it, was the only sign of Saporta’s wealth as far as Pete could tell.

“Would you like anything?” Saporta asked, standing quite close. Pete looked up at him, his training prodding him to sink to his knees, to offer up grace and submission. His instincts countered that with a desire to rise on his toes and answer the question with action, taking Saporta’s mouth in a kiss.

He couldn’t do either, only stand and look at the man, his eyes moving over Saporta’s face as if to memorize it.

“Something to drink, perhaps,” Saporta prompted gently, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Or somewhere to wash up.”

Pete shook his head. “No.”

“Surely there’s something. I’m a terrible host if I bring you in and then leave you empty-handed.”

Pete turned his head, addressing his words to the far corner of the room, where a simple carving of Naamah held pride of place on a table. “I want you to take me to bed. I want your mouth on me--everywhere. Your teeth. I don’t want you to be careful. I don’t want to be tied or restrained, except by the weight of your body on me. I want you to hold me down and keep me by your own power alone. I came here for--for those things. From you. I came here for you.”

There was silence for a moment, and he took several painful breaths before he looked away from Naamah and back to Saporta’s face.

Saporta was smiling, a twist of his mouth that combined joy and anticipation and a shade of cruelty in a way that made Pete’s heart beat faster like it did when he gave himself to the priests of Kushiel’s temple. Lord Saporta could break him open and expose his heart the same way, he knew it, he _felt_ it, rushing through his chest like the familiar flutter of bronze wings.

“On the bed,” Saporta said softly. “And take off your clothes, if you would. I need to see your skin, so I know what I’m marking. What I’m claiming as mine.”

Pete’s hands moved promptly, reflexively, pulling and pushing at his shirt and trousers until his body was bare to Saporta’s gaze. He turned in a slow circle, displaying himself as well, old lessons from the House whispering in his mind about letting the patron see exactly what had been purchased.

But Saporta hadn’t purchased him. Not for this, not tonight.

Pete stopped and turned to Saporta again. “Let me see you, too.”

Saporta’s smile grew wider, blooming with real humor for a moment as well as the sharp anticipation that still sent the blood pounding in Pete’s veins. “As you will.” He undressed less quickly, but as smoothly, baring a body that was lean and strong--not an Adept’s, but one that Pete could easily imagine over his own, fitted to his own, keeping him still while Saporta hurt him.

As Pete had asked. As he wanted.

“Am I acceptable?” Saporta asked, gesturing at himself. “To your liking?”

“Take me to bed,” Pete said, making the first step on his own. “Now, Gabriel. I want you.”

**

Pete woke up lying on his stomach, face pressed against soft pillows and Saporta's arm loosely over his waist. He took a deep breath, assessing his body and his mind while he came back to full awareness. Body: sore, here and there, where Saporta had bitten down deeply enough to bruise. Sore at his groin and inner thighs more than anywhere else. Good soreness, a deep ache, one he could sink into and revel in.

His mind was quiet. Calm and even happy, a contentment he rarely felt after an assignation.

For a half-formed plan executed on impulse, he'd done rather well.

He sat up a bit, propping himself on an elbow so he could look at his partner. The light coming in the windows was strong--mid afternoon, probably. They had lost the day and at least one of them was going to be in not inconsiderable trouble for it. Pete couldn't bring himself to care very much. Saporta's face was flushed a little in sleep, delicate curls clinging to his forehead with sweat. Tiny lines fanned from the corners of his eyes and his lips were parted to show a flash of white teeth and red tongue. His hand was open on the bedsheets, relaxed and held out a bit, as in quiet supplication. Not begging but asking. Pete could imagine his voice, asking. He could imagine answering, too.

Terrifying and good.

Pete slipped out from under Saporta's arm and climbed out of the bed, moving to the basin by the window to wet a cloth and wipe his body clean. The water was still warm and sweet-scented; someone had come in and placed it while they slept. Pete had lived in houses of servants his whole life, and carried out every assignation he'd ever had among them; this was the first time it had ever felt odd. Someone had seen him asleep, with Saporta's arm around him. They would have assumed he was here on a typical job. They wouldn't... understand.

The thought made his chest hurt in a way he'd never felt before and had no wish to understand.

He washed his face and hands and glanced around the room for his clothing. It was hardly appropriate for walking around the city on the day, but he hardly had a choice. He couldn't borrow any of Saporta's clothing, unless he suddenly became taller in the next few minutes.

The door opened a crack and a girl peered in at him, dressed in Saporta livery. "Sir?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "Nobody's sir, I promise. Do you have my clothes?"

"Folded in the wardrobe." She nodded at the appropriate piece of furniture and he nodded in thanks, retrieving his clothing with a blended feeling of relief and regret.

"You're leaving without waking his lordship?" she asked, just as softly. At his brief nod, she stepped back from the doorway and gestured for him to follow. "Do you require a carriage?"

"Is there one to spare?"

"It's no trouble, sir." She led him through the corridors back to the entryway and pulled a bellcord. "Wait here for just a moment."

He stood in awkward silence, staring up at the grand ceiling. "Can you give him a message for me?"

"Of course."

"Just ask him to write soon. If he can."

"Yes, sir." She hesitated a moment, then went on. "He'll be out at the estate for the next ten or twelve days, I should tell you, sir. So don't worry if there's a delay."

"Oh." Pete knew himself enough to imagine the panic he would go into if he didn't hear from Saporta for twelve days. "Thank you."

She smiled and tipped her head, then pushed the door open. “The carriage, sir.”

Pete walked out and climbed into the carriage, resting his head against the doorframe for a moment to look back at the house and find Lord Saporta’s window.

“Valerian House, sir?” the driver asked, gathering up the reins.

“No,” Pete said. “Kushiel’s temple, please.”

**

The priestess at the altar rose to her feet as he entered, reaching for her whip. “Welcome, Chosen.”

“Not that,” he said, stopping a few paces away. “Not yet. I wanted to… to pray, first. And ask for advice. Then flogging, probably.”

The mask made it impossible to be sure, but he thought she was amused. “Of course.” She stepped to the altar and adjusted a candle, then moved back into the recess and gestured for him to come forward.

Pete knelt simply, not lowering himself to the floor in abeyante. He wanted to be honest right now. To come to Kushiel with no more and no less than what was in his heart.

Watching the candles and opening his mind didn’t bring anything _new_ to his heart, though. He breathed out slowly and looked toward the priestess again. “May I ask your advice?”

“Speak, Chosen.”

“Is this truly what Kushiel wants from me? This life? The Night Court, and then a life after it where I just… I mean, I won’t know how to do anything else. No one will expect me to do anything else. I’m a curiosity. Something to point at and say that’s special, that’s rare. And since it’s rare, it must belong to everybody…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m not saying this right.”

“Anguissettes provide balance. They are a reminder.”

“I’ve never understood that, either.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t want to be a reminder. I want to be myself.”

“Are you not yourself now?” He voice was cool, detached, but he thought he heard a note of curiosity now.

“I’m what the House made me. I’ve never been allowed to be myself.” He hesitated, then let himself go on, let the bitterness seep into his voice. “I’ve never been allowed to do as I will, or feel as I will.”

She actually caught her breath, breaking the careful reserve of her service. He’d known those words might be too far. 

“Chosen…”

“He made me to feel pain as pleasure. Why does that mean that I _must_ be of Valerian? Why does it mean I have to serve Naamah? I don’t understand.”

“It has always been this way,” she said. “Valerian House is most suited to understand an anguissette, how to teach them to care for themselves, what they need.”

“But it isn’t what I _want_. It isn’t how I should be. I feel it.” He put his hand over his heart. “I feel like I’m dying slowly, choking, in those walls. What did Kushiel say? Did he ever? Do we know?”

“There is nothing recorded,” she said finally. “Only that you are to bring balance, and that you feel pain as pleasure in his name.”

“I do feel pain as pleasure. Yes.” He wiped at his eyes, unsure of when they’d begun to water. “But I don’t feel it as a desire to beg, and I don’t feel it as wanting to crawl. I don’t want those. They’re not…” He stopped to take a breath. “I am Kushiel’s Chosen, but I am not Valerian. It’s not my nature to _yield_.”

The priestess stepped further back into the shadows. “Wait here a moment, Chosen.” 

She vanished and he waited, breathing deeply and watching the candles flicker against the bronze accents of the altar space. He felt Kushiel’s presence now more than before; the smell of sweat and blood that lingered in the air, the memory of pain. The idea of being watched over by a stern figure who loved nonetheless.

He thought of Saporta, standing at the end of the bed with his mouth curved in a smile that mixed joy and cruelty. That was Kushiel’s face, in Pete’s mind. That was where he had felt the Companion’s presence truly. Not in the spaces of Valerian House. Not in his assignations.

Saporta’s hand moving over his skin, pressing hard and purposefully over each mark and bruise; that was when he had clearly felt Naamah’s presence, for the first time in years.

The priestess came back, attended by two other figures dressed in Temple masks and robes, their whips neatly tucked into their belts. 

“Chosen,” she said formally, holding out her hands. “Rise, and follow me.”

**

The Dowayne was furious. “We’ve cared for you, we’ve given you a place--”

“And now you won’t have to any longer.” Pete frowned at his wardrobe, trying to pick out the clothing that wouldn’t be out of place for moving about the city outside of boudoirs. “You’ll be spared a considerable expense.”

“And what about what’s been spent so far? What you owe us?”

“I’m deeply grateful.” Pete pulled two shirts from the wardrobe and tossed them toward the bed and his waiting traveling bag. “No one will ever hear a word against Valerian’s care from me.”

“No, they’ll only hear that you denounced us to the Temples of Kushiel and Naamah.”

“I didn’t denounce you.” A pair of trousers joined the pile on the bed. “That implies something public happened. It will all be very discreet.”

“People will notice that you’ve gone away from the House, Peter.”

“And I won’t say anything to contradict whatever very good story you and the Temples come up with. No one will ever know you broke Elua’s commandment.” Pete stopped and looked at her, finally. “What more can you want?”

“The price of your marque,” she said, her voice tight and clipped. “We’re owed that.”

“My marque was a gift.” He turned away again. “Given in love, with an open heart.”

“It symbolizes the cost of raising and training you, as well as--”

“The Temples will reimburse you for that.” He took a final handful of clothes from the wardrobe and closed the doors. “And more, I imagine. It’s done, Dowayne. It’s decided. Let me go.”

“Where _will_ you go?” she asked. “How will you live?”

He stuffed the clothing into the bag and buckled it closed. “I’ve taken an interest in breeding horses. And sheep.” He bowed his head lower, hiding his smile. “And roses.”

“You know nothing about any of those, Peter.”

He looked out the window again, wondering how far a message could get before sunrise, or if the best way to carry a message was with his person. “I’m going to learn.”

**

The carriage he hired left him at the entrance to the Saporta estate late in the afternoon. He walked slowly up the grand lane, brushing insects away from his face and watching the horses move slowly about the fields. Despite his words to the Dowayne, he still had very little interest in them, or the sheep. Maybe he could learn how to make the leather goods that went along with them. That, at least, would keep his attention.

He liked the idea of learning a craft, making things with his hands. And of course it would drive the Dowayne mad, if she ever heard of it. Perfect.

By the time he reached the courtyard bridging the house and the stables, he was soaked with sweat and painted over that with a layer of dust. He stopped in the shade of one of the rose trellises and wiped his face on his sleeve, trying to think of where he should go, and whom he should ask to send word to lord Saporta that he had arrived, unasked for and unannounced.

It may have been a poor plan, in retrospect. He swallowed hard, trying to fight down the sudden wave of nausea. If Saporta didn’t want him here--if he asked him to go--

He really _didn’t_ have a second plan. The Dowayne was right about that.

He picked up his bag and took a step toward the house, drawing on all of his lessons in poise and grace to keep his body from betraying his nerves. Before he could take another, he heard cheerful shouting from the direction of the stables.

“Rob! Bastard, get down here and tell me what you’ve done with the pastures since the last visit, it took me ages to find my own horse, I swear. You think you’re so clever and--” Saporta stopped mid-stride, halfway up the path from the barn, his eyes widening as he recognized the figure in the courtyard properly. “Peter.”

“Yes.” Pete stared at him for a minute, amazed at how he looked so like the first time Pete had seen him walking up from the barn. The same boots and breeches, the same riding crop tapping restlessly against his thigh. But this time Pete knew his touch and was free to accept it. To invite it, even.

Everything was different now.

“I came to see you,” he said, the words trying to catch in his throat. “To tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Saporta shifted his riding crop from one hand to the other and ran his fingers through his hair. “Has something happened?”

Pete’s eyes lingered on the crop, and he reminded himself to swallow. “Perhaps we could discuss it inside?”

Saporta’s eyebrows went up and he stared at Pete for a moment, then began to smile. “Let me change into something more respectable.”

“There’s no need.” Pete touched Saporta’s arm, anticipation going through him with a sharp thrill. “Neither of us has to be respectable, Gabriel.”

He could see when his words sank in and Saporta’s smile grew wider. “In that case,” Saporta said, offering his arm, “I’ll bring the whip, too.”

As they walked together, all Pete could hear was the rush of Kushiel’s bronze wings.


End file.
